


Tangerine

by Trudness



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26359618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trudness/pseuds/Trudness
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Tangerine

“Thought you'd stopped drinking,” he says as you crack open the aluminum lid of your can.  
“I have. Mostly.”

Electrochemistry: You throw your head back, spill the juice into your throat. Ever-flowing ever-bubbling magma of sensation. The numb restlessness in your fingertips, the icy sting of the cold can. Of course you haven't stopped. Too much joy to relinquish.  
Perception: The lieutenant smiles, brings his own can to his lips.

“Sure. I get it.”

Empathy: As to illustrate his understanding, Kim takes a cigarette from his pack.

“Care for one?”  
“You wanna guide me down a path of vice, lieutenant?”

He shrugs, ignites his cig. Looks away.  
Shivers: Far away. Far, far, far away.  
Perception: Not much to see from here. Another apartment building, just like your own, right across the street from your balcony. Underneath your dangling feet, the sidewalk, the occasional passerby, the dim, sickly streetlights. A mist of night and urban warmth.  
Inland Empire: The scent of the sea.  
Perception [smell]: Just exhaust fumes and take-out food, growing cold in its cardboard box. Smoke from the lieutenant's cigarette.

“Are you smelling anything strange?”  
He raises his head. You can almost see him strain his nose in an effort to humor you.  
“Nothing particularly strange, no.”  
“It smells like the sea.”  
He looks at you.

Empathy: Not puzzled. Not even curious. He just looks at you.  
Perception: It really does not smell like the sea at all.

“Like salt? Like... Rot?”  
“Rot?”  
“Seaweed, rotting. That's what the sea smells like.”

Encyclopedia: Is it?

“Is that what it is? That smell? Just rot?”  
He takes a sip from his can.  
“I don't think I really care for this line of conversation.”

You let out a laugh.

“Yeah, you're right. Who gives a shit. It doesn't really smell like the sea at all, anyway.”  
“It really doesn't. I don't know why you'd say that.  
“I don't...”  
“Yeah, sure, you don't know why you say half the shit you end up saying.”

Volition: Something within you is breaking.  
You: Breaking?  
Perception: Kim is sitting, his back against the balcony fence, one of his arm resting on one of the metal tubes that comprise it. He looks calm. Even more so than usual.  
Empathy: The word would be “peaceful”.  
Electrochemistry: It's the smoke, baby boy. If you had one... If only you had one... You'd be so at peace. Guaran-fucking-tee. So at peace.

“All things considered, I'll take a cig if you don't mind.”  
“Sure, help yourself.”

He produces the pack from his pocket, hands it to you. Slim pale fingers, wrapped around the small box. You do your best not to touch them as you extract a cigarette from the pack. You put it in your mouth and pat your pockets in search of your lighter.

Inland Empire: A fire-breather in the corner. Shooting stars, sparkles of light igniting a riotous crowd. A song that bursts out from in between silences. The interregnum, no man's land of maybes between the fields of barren.  
Electrochemistry: Just ask for his lighter.

“Ah shit, I lost my light somewhere.”  
“It's ok, here.”

Volition: He gets closer.  
Inland Empire: Reaches out his hand. Don't accept the handful of dust.  
Perception: He hands you his lighter.  
Volition: None of this is peaceful.  
Inland Empire: A gigantic dam made of clay. It does not break as decades of waves beat its form into stone. It'll melt with the flame.

You accept the lighter, shelter the flame with the palm of your hand, inhale. A reddish spot of fire appears on the end of your cigarette. You hand the lighter back to Kim.

“Keep it. I have a thousand of those. I keep losing them.”  
“Thanks.”

Empathy: He smiles. Falls silent again, into his contemplative state.

“You've ever done this thing?”  
“What thing?”  
“The thing they do in bad novels. Lighting your cigarette with someone else's.”  
“Oh, that. No, I don't think that would be a very effective way of doing it.”  
“Yeah but who cares? It's a sexy idea.”

Perception: His eyes grow wide. He laughs.  
Empathy: He wasn't expecting that.

“Sure, sure. Yeah, I guess it's sexy. In an old school, macho kind of way.”  
“Thought you'd be into the macho kind of sexy.”

Empathy: Laughter again.  
Shivers: A small alley, a few blocks from here. Barstools on the pavement, neon signs. Monday special, happy hour!, karaoke night. A door that opens on a staircase, going down. Down. The ruthless stare of the bouncer, his bulging, tattooed arms crossed. An aquarium of smoke, deep under the earth. People dancing, drinking. Someone you wish you knew. Night has begun to fall.  
Perception: He slides a finger under his glasses, wipes something from the corner of his eye.

“Sure, you psycho. But aren't we all? Look at yourself. The macho in chief.”  
“I'm macho?”  
He gestures at his face.

Logic: A gesture that resembles muttonchops.

“Oh, are those macho?”  
“What are they supposed to be, if not?”  
“Well. They're disco.”

Empathy: He smiles. Raises his can. You clink it against yours.

“Santé, then. To disco.”

Perception: The cans let out a dull, watery sound as they touch.  
Inland Empire: The dam is down. We're all made of the sea.


End file.
